


all i ask of you

by graywhatsit



Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Inspired by other work, Internal Conflict, Manipulation, Multi, Stockholm Syndrome, it's actor mark so..., kind of a damien au?, mild scenes of abuse?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26974066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit
Summary: Rather than fight, the D.A. decides to take some advice: stay safe, stay alive.They come to regret it.inspired by d-ama-ien's fic, the love interest
Relationships: Damien | The Mayor/Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?), Mark Fischbach/Y/N | The District Attorney
Comments: 7
Kudos: 50





	1. say that you love me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [d-ama-ien (ama_janee)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama_janee/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Love Interest](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26875285) by [d-ama-ien (ama_janee)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama_janee/pseuds/d-ama-ien). 



> bless @d-ama-ien for making incredible stuff ;_;
> 
> go check that out first-- it might help
> 
> find me @fgfluidity on tumblr

“You’re going to play your part so perfectly, my love.”

He croons it at you, soft eyes and a gentle hand on your cheek.

It wasn’t that way mere moments ago, when you threatened him with sharp words and your fists, snarled at him to release you from the cuff so you could fight him one-on-one. You are smaller than him, and you are not a talented or powerful fighter, but you never could stand for bullshit.

The hit was harder than you expected, and from your spot on the floor, you know it’s going to bruise under his palm.

It aches so much it makes your eyes water, and a tear accidentally spills over when you blink.

“Oh, sweetheart...” His thumb rubs just over your cheekbone, an imitation of a loving caress. “Don’t cry, please. We’ll be so wonderful together, you and I. If you do what you’re told.”

You swallow and nod.

* * *

You’re a district attorney.

You’ve put dangerous people away in the name of justice.

You’ve made other dangerous people very angry.

It wasn’t law school that taught you, but your experienced mentors in law offices, the vulnerable people you’ve met as a child and an adult, haunted eyes and serious whispers: if something happens to you, if they come for you, if they want to hurt you... just stay alive and as unharmed as possible until you can get out of the situation. Whatever it takes.

Alive is better than dead. Your pride can take a hit, but your body isn’t so resilient.

So, when he tells you it’s time for bed, you smile and climb in next to him.

You don’t throw his arm off when he wraps it around your waist.

You don’t shudder when you feel lips on the back of your neck.

You just close your eyes and try to sleep.

The next morning, you run the lines he gives you, pouring every ounce of your charm into the words. You aren’t an actor like he is, and never had the aspiration to be, but you have a presence, a calm confidence so carefully crafted for the courtroom that you’ve earned the moniker ‘unflappable’.

You are very flappable. You fight to keep a smile instead of a sneer. Your stomach twists and churns up bile when he praises your efforts in a delighted purr, disgust at him and disgust at the unwanted  _ desire _ the praise sparks.

He’s not the one you want it from, but your body finds no difference.

When he pulls you in for a kiss, afterwards, too possessive, too hard, you force yourself to relax, move into it just the barest amount to keep him happy.

He’s very happy. Happy enough to slip his tongue into your mouth, to move his hands down your body, and it takes every ounce of willpower you have not to drive your knee up and into his groin.

“Stop—“ You can’t keep yourself from saying it, the feeling of his fingertips brushing the bare skin above your waistband simply too much, too far.

To his credit— and it doesn’t count for much at all— he doesn’t continue any further. His fingers remain where they are. “Hm? What’s wrong, songbird?”

You hate that, more than you hate his touch, more than you hate the deep rasp of his voice, hot breath over your mouth. Damien— and  _ only _ Damien— gets to call you that. Shaking with anger— and you hope, you  _ so _ hope that it reads as nerves— you say, “That’s too fast. I don’t— I haven’t.”

Whether or not that’s true is irrelevant. What matters is that it cuts off your outright refusal— certain to be incendiary— and implies the necessity for a pause. Because you haven’t, you aren’t ready. If you aren’t ready, it won’t happen.

Hopefully. You hope and pray to every last deity you can think of that, for all that has gone dark and rotten inside Mark, he isn’t that far gone.

Somehow, his eyes grow darker, and you just feel his fingers dig into your hips before you think  _ I have said the wrong thing. _

“Really, now,” he murmurs, and though you’re too close to see it, you can hear the wolfish grin around the words. “With this pretty face? I’m surprised.”

You try not to bristle at the insinuation. “I’m— I’m not ready. I can’t.”

“Hey, hey, shh.” He kisses you again, soft and short, before you can prepare yourself. “We have all the time in the world, dear. Whenever you’re ready.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you, M—“

His concession to patience, unfortunately, doesn’t extend to further kisses.

You suck it up and wait until he’s finished, lips numb and face sore from beard burn.

With the way he looks you over, then... you aren’t so sure he’ll keep that promise.

* * *

You keep the cabin when he leaves.

He might be able to wish away any mess in...  _ whatever _ this place is, but it keeps your mind and hands occupied during his long hours out in the snow.

If you keep busy, you don’t panic.

Besides... when he storms in, shoulders and face tight with rage, a clean and warm home, you sitting at the table expectantly, seems to calm him.

A little.

Enough.

You aren’t the target of his anger, at least— not that your hard work doesn’t suffer for it.

He doesn’t offer to help, doesn’t apologize, but it gives you something to do the next day, cleaning up glass or patching furniture.

Busy mind, busy fingers.

He catches you at it, one day. In the middle of sweeping— meticulously, as a glass got shattered and there are bound to be hidden slivers— an old tune on your lips, you don’t even notice he’s in the cabin again until you hear him say:

“My songbird finally sings for me.”

You  _ don’t _ yelp. You just... jump.

He’s smirking when you turn around. “No, please,” he continues, raising his hands placatingly. “Don’t stop on my account. You always had the most beautiful voice, my love— I’m so glad you’re feeling comfortable enough to use it again.”

Comfortable. Were you really comfortable enough to sing, of all things? Clenching your fists tight around the broomstick, you swallow down the bile that threatens to come up. “I didn’t think you’d be back so early. You’re usually gone until sundown.”

For what counts as sundown in this wretched place. The sky is perpetually overcast through the thick trees, and as ice-gray and featureless as the ground. It doesn’t get much darker when night falls.

Which could be a testament to just how thick those clouds are.

“I finished up early. And...” He steps forward, slow and deliberate, in your direction. “I missed you terribly, my dear.”

Mark’s golden voice is sweet and smooth as honey, but nowhere near as soothing, not to your nerves; you know he’s coming to hold you, and he does, sliding his arms around your waist and resting his head against yours.

You don’t twitch a muscle, even as he gently sways you both. “Mark, please,” you mutter, hoping for embarrassed and not irritated, “I was sweeping up.”

“And I appreciate that. What a good little bird you are, keeping our nest neat for us.” His face turns into your hair— a kiss— and when you look down, all the glass and dirt has vanished. “But you don’t need to, never again. Here, we can wish it all away; once we go back home, we’ll have our staff take care of it. All you need to do is relax and enjoy yourself, my darling.”

There are so many points you could argue in that statement— and you were a lawyer, so you’re damn good at it— but one thing in particular catches your attention first. “Home?”

You don’t mean to choke up at the idea, but you do: a lump in your throat, burning in your eyes. You don’t know how long you’ve been here, in this cabin, in this world. You don’t know how long you were in that mirror. All you know is that you haven’t seen your home, messy and lived-in and perfect, in a  _ very _ long time.

Mark hums, and the broom disappears from your hands. “No, no, sweetheart, don’t cry,” he croons, turning you just a bit into a proper embrace. “Yes— once my work is done, we’ll go right home, together. You’ll love the manor, and you’ll have every last thing you could hope for. You just have to be patient, dove.”

The manor. Of course— it’s all about him. What he wants, his story. Retiring to his estate with his love is just the reward he deserves, apparently.

You hate his touch. You have from the moment he decided he would with impunity.

You hate that he set his sights on you. You had eyes for one man, and one man only, and it wasn’t him.

You hate that you ever accepted the invitation. You had a life before that party.

His hand combs through your hair, his other arm strong and steady and warm around you. His lips turn into the side of your head again.

And God help you, but—

But it feels—

Good.

You haven’t been touched by anyone in so long but him, and with your loneliness, your worry, your despair, you crave comfort. He is the only one who can give it to you and it’s working.

He doesn’t need to know that’s what really makes you break.

He gives you more attention, soft words and gentle touches, guides you to bed when you can no longer stand. It feels so good, and it only makes you feel worse.

Your tears cause affection.

The affection causes tears.

You don’t know what to think, anymore, and— eventually, exhausted— you fall asleep with him wrapped around you.

————

You exist in a constant state of disgust and despair.

You don’t know how to leave, or if you can. The woods are thick, from what you can see, and freezing enough that ice curls at your windows at all hours of day and night. You won’t make it out without supplies, which you don’t and can’t have.

You aren’t sure if you can wait long enough for such a privilege, though.

The disgust comes in when you find that you crave his touch, from gentle brushes of his hand to full embraces to the kisses he gives you apropos of nothing. 

(When he grins brightly and spins you both in a dance over the cabin floor, pulling you close, you smile, too, before you even notice.)

You crave his sweet words, praises of your appearance, your talents, his pet names and professions of love. 

(“Every day, I think you can’t get any more lovely. You always prove me wrong.”

“I’ll be back soon, my star. Please, don’t strain yourself today— last night’s dinner was exquisite, but you don’t need to go to such trouble.”

“Good night, my darling dove. I love you.”

He says this every single night, his front against your back, arms around your waist. Most nights, you remain completely silent.

Then, once: “... I love you, too.”

His arms tighten around you, the soft kiss pressed to your shoulder in the shape of a giddy smile.

You realize that you sort of mean it, and you shut your eyes tight.)

You sing for him because his eyes light up and he smiles so sincerely when you do.

Though it’s unnecessary, you cook and clean for you both— not because it’ll redirect his anger from you, but because he always looks pleased.

He’s the only one you have. You need it.

You need him.

One night, in a moment of frustration, of loneliness and need and weakness, you move his hands down your body, just enough for his fingertips to slide below your waistband. He’s astonished, equal parts hunger and adoration and surprise in his eyes, and he dives right into you when you don’t tell him no.

You want to vomit when you’re finished, even as you turn your burning eyes, your sobs, into his bare chest, unable to bring yourself to move away, taking comfort when he strokes your hair and shushes you. You’re just so overcome with emotion, finally going ahead with this, you say, and you aren’t lying.

(It was good and you hate it and you hate him and you hate yourself.)

You hate yourself more every time you allow it, hate that your body reacts to him and that your heart sings when he holds you close.

You have to go.

You aren’t so afraid of death anymore— if you can even die after what happened in the manor.

You don’t know if staying alive was worth it.

* * *

The world outside isn’t as blisteringly cold as you thought.

It’s worse.

The sturdy walls of the cabin betrayed the intensity of the wind, howling and cutting through your layers of blankets like a knife.

You had no idea of the thickness of the ice when it curled across your window like lace, delicate and swirling there, heavy and painful around your inappropriately-wrapped feet.

The snow is well over your knees here, making the already-treacherous journey through the thick woods even slower and more difficult.

You’re so cold you’ve stopped shivering entirely, the world around you starting to feel warm. You’re so tired from moving, every muscle stiff and painful with cold, but...

But Mark is there, and you can’t stay there, not and live with yourself.

This is a stupid decision, a deadly and foolish mistake, but at least it’s your decision. At least you don’t have to wake up conflicted with desire and loathing as he kisses you good morning. At least you won’t question your sanity, your morality, your decency, for wanting this monster who kidnapped you.

Maybe you can find help. Maybe. You really, truly hope that there’s an end to these woods, or some kind stranger living deeper inside.

But that hope started low, and at this point...

Well. You don’t even try to get up when you stumble and fall into the snow.

It keeps the wind away. It’s almost warm, and softer than you expected.

You hope the wind covers you up with more snow, like it did your tracks. You remember— you checked, because for as desperate as you are, you aren’t that careless.

He can’t find you, at the very least. That’s what matters.

Staying alive was not worth it.


	2. stay alive

You wake up in a cabin, and you quietly burst into tears.

This is an endless hell of doubt, conflict, and disgust, torture for a mistake you made at the request of your best friend. You cannot leave, you cannot die.

Your entire body feels drained, and has a slow time responding when you reach up to wipe the burning wet from your face. You feel like you’ve been frozen and thawed.

Which, you suppose, you have been.

“Oh my God. Damien— Damien, wake up!”

Damien? You turn your head, slowly.

The cabin is different. You should have known— it’s rougher and less well-kept than Mark’s, a little smaller.

Besides, there’s a woman sitting near the fireplace, long hair pulled up and in a sweater, but you can’t mistake her face. Celine, eyes wide at the sight of you, shouting for—

A man at the table. A man with long, shaggy hair and a beard, who looks up at you with bleary eyes— and then like he’s seen a ghost.

You would never in a million years have though you’d see him again, and never in another million think you’d see him so unkempt.

Yes, it suits him, but...

“Damien,” you say, quietly, though even talking takes more energy than it should..

He shivers— visibly, with a shaky exhale— and then he’s at your bedside.

You have to answer a lot of questions; Celine is the one who asks, severe in a way you don’t understand, while Damien just stays with you, uncommonly quiet with his hand centimeters from yours.

“How did you get here?” You walked.

“Where did you come from?” A different cabin.

“You weren’t in the mirror?” You were, but before the cabin.

“Were you all alone?” No.

“Who was with you?”

You can’t answer that quickly. You tremble, words caught in your throat, because for some ungodly reason, you don’t want them to know. You want to keep him a secret. Safe.

You don’t want them to hate you for feeling what you do, just as you hate yourself. You don’t want them to know what you did, what you wanted him to do, what you felt you had to.

Your fingers burn with sensation, and you look away from Celine’s increasingly-impatient stare to your hand. Damien has it, though loosely, and the haunted look in his eye has faded when you raise your gaze to his face. He smiles, faintly.

“Mark was,” you reply, still burning with shame. “Mark had me there.”

Damien’s hand tightens around yours, and Celine darkens, face like thunder. “Is he still there? Do you know the way back?”

The cold fury in her voice frightens you more than her impatience, though you know it isn’t directed at you. “I don’t know, I— I don’t even know how I got _here_.”

“I found you,” Damien murmurs. “When I was getting firewood. Scared the absolute hell out of me, you little monster.”

The name is said with such fondness that your heart warms, and you squeeze his hand with weak fingers. “Sorry.”

Celine, though...

“That isn’t good enough,” she complains, pacing away from the bed. “I need you to try harder. Where did you come from? Answer me!”

You flinch, and Damien faces his sister with a sharp glare. “Celine, that’s enough.”

“It’s enough when I—“ 

“Celine! They’re in no position to go back out there, even if they did remember. That is _enough_!”

They stare each other down for a few long moments. You can’t imagine Celine, strong-willed as she is, backing down, but she sighs, posture relaxing just a touch. “You... you’re right.”

“I can be right,” he replies, only a little smug, but he quickly grows serious. “I can tell you the direction I was going, if it means that much to you, but I will _not_ let you drag them out there to help. Whatever you need Mark for—“

“Don’t worry about it,” Celine interrupts. She strides for the door, where warmer outerwear hangs, and begins to wrap up. “Which way?”

“South-west— but it’s a long walk, Celine, and I’d bet twice as long for that cabin,” Damien warns. He lifts his free hand when she shoots him a look. “I’m just trying to look out for you. It’s nasty right now, even if spring is coming.”

Something about that rattles her a bit, you can tell, though you have little idea why; she looks between you both, thoughtfully, before she turns back to the door. “Yeah,” she mutters, pulling it open. “Might be. Get some sleep, both of you. I’ll be back.”

The door slams shut behind her before anyone can say anything else. You shudder, thinking of Mark’s moods, rattling doorframes and shattering glass.

Maybe they were just too alike, back then.

“Get some sleep. _She_ never does,” Damien grumbles, before finally looking back at you. “You should, though. You’re warm, now, but more rest won’t hurt.”

It sounds like a good idea. Still: “What is she going to do?”

“From the look of it, nothing good,” he sighs. “I knew she was angry with Mark, but...”

She might hurt him, or worse. You’re excited. You’re terrified.

You have so much you want to say, but what first? How?

“Mark.” Damien says the name like it’s a curse, but the furrow in his brow reads more confusion than anger. “I know him, I know I do, because Celine... but why do I feel so angry with him?”

That doesn’t sound right. Though it was ages ago, you remember his blue-tinted specter in the void, his temper finally rising to the surface at what Mark did to him. “Do you not remember?”

“Do you?” His eyes quickly cut to yours in a quiet sort of desperation.

You know desperation. It’s been haunting him, and it won’t rest. Against your better judgement— though, after all of your recent decisions, you have no place to call your judgement better than anyone’s— you say, “We died, Damien. He took your body. How long ago was it? Decades?”

Several emotions pass over his face: shock, doubt, a little horror. Anger. _Real_ anger, and he removes his hand from yours. “What? If you’re trying to pull some joke on me, my friend, now is not the time. Stealing bodies? Death? We’re in our late twenties, how could it be decades?!”

“Damien, I would _never_ lie to you.” You look him in the eye, trying to channel his rare stern expression that somehow always cuts your chaos short. “Not now. You know me too well for that.”

“But it’s—“

“Impossible. But it happened.” You’ve seen the world twist and change before your very eyes— your lives, if they even are _lives_ — are just full of impossibility now.

Not that they weren’t, before, but this is different.

You think of something, then, something you should have considered but never thought twice about. “Damien, how long has it been winter?”

He blinks at you, still frowning. “What?”

“How long has winter been going? How many—“ You gesture for the pile of firewood on the other side of the fireplace. “How many times have you chopped firewood? Where even _are_ we?”

Damien still looks disbelieving, a little angry, but you know those gears are turning by the way he works his jaw, little motions that bring to mind your days together in libraries, offices, each others’ homes.

He shakes his head in dawning realization. “That— if that’s true, then—“

The world around you trembles, giving a deep cracking sound like the earth splitting under your feet.

If it’s an earthquake— you can’t get up. Your body won’t respond fast enough, aching with exhaustion. “Damien—“ You choke, because after making it out the other side, finding him, you don’t want to die.

“So you’re the one who took my songbird from me.”

You shake before you realize, trembling under your blankets as though you’re back in the snow. The voice is cold and smooth and angry just under the surface, and he’s there. He’s in the cabin, blood red suit and diamond-capped cane, mouth twisted into a snarl. “Mark!”

Damien stands quickly, oddly feral in his posture. “You,” he growls. “After what you’ve done, you come into _my_ home—“

“You took what is _mine_ , Damien.” Mark’s hand clenches around the head of the cane, and you hate that you shiver against something hot and sharp. “I hadn’t expected you to take to your role without prompting, but I underestimated you. I can admit to that.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

You know. You know very well. “No, no, no, Mark—“

“Shh, my darling. I’m here to save you, don’t worry.” Mark’s features soften, just for a second. “You’re already a perfect villain. My songbird and I were so in love, and you stole them from me while I was away, when they were vulnerable and alone. I’d commend you, if you didn’t have them in your _bed_.”

You can’t see Damien’s face where he’s standing between you and Mark, but you watch him bristle. “I found them half dead out in the snow! Where the hell else would they be?”

“Back home, safe and sound!” Mark’s voice booms, echoes weird and wrong off the wooden walls, and you swear the world trembles again. “With me, right where they’re supposed to be!”

“Then why were they out there at all?”

The question hangs in the air, stagnant and thick with tension as both men stare each other down. The shock of the insinuation fades from Mark’s face quickly enough, replaced by an expression you know all too well, from moments before broken things and shouts.

Rage. Pure rage, and he grips his cane until the knuckles turn white.

Beside the bed, Damien tenses, too, takes a protective step forward until he’s directly between you and Mark.

He’s going to get hurt. He’s going to get killed.

You sit up, gritting your teeth. Somehow, you know Mark will not hold back, even for you. You know Damien won’t let you go, not if you don’t want to.

Everything feels slow, too slow, and as your eyes reach the window—

Celine is looking in, right at Mark. You’ve never seen such anger, though the two men beside you steam with it. Against one shoulder, she wields an axe.

You don’t know if she returned or if she never left, how she knows, but you know what she’s going to do. It’s clear as her anger, as the diamond on Mark’s cane, as the gentle care in Damien’s grip.

Someone isn’t getting out alive.

You don’t want it to be Mark. You don’t want it to be Damien.

A small, awful part of you doesn’t care. They both hurt you, albeit in dramatically different ways.

But, for all of your twisted feelings—

You’re afraid of Mark.

You could never be afraid of Damien.

Celine’s eyes meet yours through the glass, and you have an idea.

You are unflappable. You learned from the best.

“I was just trying to find you,” you say, just whining enough. It isn’t hard— even talking feels like aching effort. “Mark, I—“

It works, if only a little. Both of them turn to you, varying states of bewildered. Rushing hot at the attention, you shuffle over the side of the bed, steering well clear of Damien.

You try not to focus too much on his hurt when he says, “You— you what?”

“Sweetheart?” Mark takes a step towards you, only to bare his teeth at Damien, who steadfastly remains in the way. “You—“

No, no, no, you can’t have that. Though your entire body aches in protest, you slide off the edge of the bed to stand. Your feet tingle uncomfortably, but at least they don’t hurt and aren’t numb; the more worrying effect is your legs quickly turning to jelly.

It’ll work for what you’re planning, but you have to keep moving, just a few more steps. “I needed you, and I know you go out into the woods. I didn’t think I’d get so turned around.”

One step. “I couldn’t get back. I didn’t know how.”

Two steps. “And it got so cold—“

Three steps. Just one second, you have to hold out. “And then I was here, with _him_ , and I remembered what you told me about him.”

One last step. “And I was so, so _scared_.”

Perfect. You let yourself fall— you don’t really have much choice, will of steel or not, because your legs are just about done with you entirely— and you’re close enough for Mark to brave that distance, sliding his arms around you to stop your fall.

The touch, and all the conflict surrounding it, bring real tears to your eyes. 

And you know what?

It works like a charm.

“Shh, shh, my love, I’m here now,” he murmurs, holding you close to him. “Don’t cry, I’ll protect you.”

You can’t see Damien with your face buried in Mark’s shoulder, but you can just imagine the incredulity. “Protect them? From _me_? What the hell have you been filling their head with?”

“The truth, Damien.” Mark doesn’t even bother with his smooth condescension, voice harsh as he spits out the words. “That you are the Villain to my Hero. That you’ll only ever hurt them. Did he, my dove?”

You don’t want to cast aspersions on Damien’s character— and you also don’t want Mark to get so angry he’ll kill him outright. You shake your head.

“I would _never_ —!”

“Thank goodness,” Mark murmurs, a breath into your hair, and, louder: “You’re lucky, else this story would be over far too soon.”

You need it to be. You don’t want to hear any more of his plan, and Celine is outside. “Please, can we just go? I just want to go back home,” you beg, muffling your words in his suit for maximum pathos. “We’ll be out the door in a second and he can’t stop us, then, please—“

“He tried to stop you?”

Not the conclusion you were headed for, but you’ll take it. “Outside, I don’t think he can. Get there first.”

If Mark suspects a thing, he doesn’t show it. “You’ll get your moment to shine, Damien,” he growls, adjusting his hold on you. “For now— _stay away from them_.”

You can see him now: confusion, betrayal, anger, sadness. He doesn’t understand.

Damien wasn’t always the quickest on the uptake, but you loved— love— him anyway. When you catch his eye— oh, and there are so many questions there and they _hurt_ — you wink, taking care that Mark can’t see.

It doesn’t seem to help, and he moves towards you both. “This isn’t some _story_ — Mark, they have to stay—“

He grunts, and you watch him stagger back those few regained steps, but you have no idea what hit him; there’s nothing there, even before you’re turned away.

You don’t think about it until you feel the first sting of bitter cold air, but perhaps being bridal carried by a future axe victim isn’t the best position to be in. You thank every last lucky star you have that Celine buries her axe into the shoulder opposite your head.

Mark screams, something unholy and inhuman, and you fall to the icy ground with a grunt when he lets go of you.

He isn’t bleeding, but something wispy and foul swirls out from around the buried blade— and it spreads, radiating out and away from it, until his torso, his legs, his arms, his face go smoke-like.

Celine makes a disgusted kind of noise and yanks, hard, stumbling back as the axe comes free. “What the hell—“

“You can’t bear to see me happy, can you, _witch_?” His voice is all wrong, once more that vicious, deep reverberation from inside the cabin. “But I still have my villain, and my songbird—“

Mark looks down at you.

And you can’t move.

He’s a monstrous sight, the thing you always thought he was; whatever awful conflict that lay in your chest has now vanished in the face of this smoky creature, face warping from handsome to demonic as the smoke swirls around.

He reaches out for you. You hear your name in three ways, three voices: worried, sharp, soothing. You hear rapid footsteps over wood.

You can move— you don’t want that miasma to touch you, you don’t want this inhuman _thing_ — and you scramble back over disturbed snow and ice and gravel until you hit Celine’s boots.

His face twists again— no longer as the result of his form, which continues to dissipate, but sheer, powerful heartbreak.

Then— anger. So much anger, and he as he swirls away and the world begins to rumble and crack and shake—

“I’ll fix what he’s done to you! _This story isn’t over yet, dove— I’ll find you again!“_

It’s Damien, bursting through the doorway, who scatters the last of him to the wind. “What the fuck- are you both alright?”

“Fine, Damien. I handled it.” Her voice is gruff, but Celine helps you to your feet with gentle hands, a measure of concern in her eyes as she looks you over. “I didn’t clip you, did I? I had no idea he’d—“

“How else was I going to get him outside?” You shiver— you still aren’t bundled for this cold. “I knew he wouldn’t leave without me.”

That concern gives way to a smirk, an impressed gleam in her eye. “Damien always said you were a clever one. Good job.”

You would take a second to preen, but you feel another body’s warmth gather in close to you, a careful arm around your shoulders. “It _was_ smart,” Damien admits, “but staying out here isn’t. Come on, you’ll freeze—“

The world jolts around a larger, cracking boom. The snow, both falling and covering the ground, shakes into powder; the sky above you, a solid and ice-gray sheet—

It splits. It splits like ice, like thick glass, and through that crack you see static, color, light and shadow.

“Celine?” Damien’s arm tightens, matching the panic in his voice. “Am I seeing— what the—“

Celine curses, an angrier sort of despair in her eyes as she watches the sky. “Damn it,” she curses again, after a second. “Of course— it’s all coming down. I can’t keep it up, anymore, and that’s how they got here—“

“They— me?” You look from her to the sky and back. What does any of this have to do with the forest?

“And Mark.” She turns to look at you both, eyes as hard and icy as the ground beneath your feet. “You didn’t rest, Damien. Right?”

“How could I? I saw my best friend unconscious in the snow!”

“What does this have to do with—“

“This entire place,” Celine interrupts, stepping away from you, “is to keep you safe from him. It only works if you rest, if you don’t remember. But you saw that flower, though spring shouldn’t come. The DA came here, though they shouldn’t have been able to. Mark showed up for you.

“I’ve been keeping it up all winter, and I just— I _can’t_ . I’m so _tired,_ and it’s breaking, anyway.” She slumps a little, and you see just how tired she really is: bone— no, soul-deep exhaustion in every line of her face, every part of her body. “I can’t keep this up.”

“Then let me help you,” Damien replies, quiet but firm. He has that gaze, the stern and unyielding one you still can’t master. “You always tell me to sleep, but you never do— and, honestly, Celine: you look like hell.”

She huffs, something that might be a laugh. “You don’t look much better, mountain man,” she snarks.

He grins, though strained. “I’m still better rested. Let me handle this, and you can get some rest.”

Celine watches him a second, torn. “It’ll change you, Damien. You can’t come back from it.”

“He wanted a villain, didn’t he? He should—“

“No.”

Both siblings look at you, surprised. You, yourself, are surprised at the steely conviction in your voice, though you’re grateful for it.

“No,” you repeat. “All I’ve heard from him is that you are a villain, a bad man, and I’m not letting you just go along with his plan. You don’t need to, because that’s not who you are. Neither of you.”

Celine frowns at you. “I can’t—“

“I know. You need to keep yourself safe, too, though.” You think for a moment. How do you keep them both safe here without someone to watch?

The answer: you don’t. “I can help. Let me. You can both rest, and I’ll—“

“You can’t.”

Celine says it quietly, but it’s enough to stop you entirely, your stubborn will rising to the surface. “Excuse me?”

“You can’t. You aren’t tied to it, and even if you were...” Her eyes turn skyward again. The cracks seem to be widening. “It’s a little late to _fix_ it. Even if Damien helps, I don’t know what will happen to you. If your soul will vanish, or if you’ll be lost or corrupted. You aren’t supposed to be here.”

She doesn’t say it dismissively— rather, she breaks your heart with the utmost kindness, soft and quiet.

You aren’t supposed to be here with Damien, or Celine, or Mark.

You think you’re supposed to be alive. but—

“There isn’t a happy ending for me, is there,” you say, more statement than question. “For any of us.”

Damien’s arm tightens around you again, and as you turn into him, you feel a whiskery kiss at your temple. “I don’t think there ever was,” he replies, sadly.

In that sentence, you hear all the futures that could have been, those that you desired beyond anything. A world where you didn’t go to Mark’s party. Where you weren’t elected DA or Damien elected Mayor, and the pressure and expectation to be perfect politicians didn’t exist.

A house, a family, a life. Things that could never be.

It should make you angry, make you rage that it isn’t fair, but it doesn’t. Numb, you simply nod into his chest. “Alright. Take care of yourself, Damien.”

Another kiss, longer, a little damp. “And you, wherever you go. I hope we can meet again.”

You feel another hand on your back, gentle and warm— Celine— before the entire world shatters around you.

It’s like being swallowed up in a current of water, fast and choking but _warm_ , finally.

You don’t fight it.

Hopefully, the next time you open your eyes...

You’ll be alive, and you’ll see Damien and Celine there, too.


End file.
